


Life After Liverpool

by mardemaravilla



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Chelsea, Liverpool, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardemaravilla/pseuds/mardemaravilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone just wants him to be okay.</p>
<p>A series of of vignettes starting two weeks before the Liverpool match (11/11/12) and eventually ending on the evening after the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life After Liverpool

**Author's Note:**

> Refers to [this match](http://www.premierleague.com/content/premierleague/en-gb/matchday/matches/2012-2013/epl.match-report.html/chelsea-vs-liverpool).
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9132.html?thread=2725292#t2725292).

"Chelsea's playing Liverpool in two weeks."

Olalla scoots closer to him and presses a soft kiss on Fernando’s cheek, "It'll be okay. Just do your best."

They sit on the couch and watch their children play with the dogs. Maybe it'll be okay, but it feels like it’s been two years since Fernando has been at his best.

* * *

When Robbie takes him aside after training, Fernando already knows what to expect.

"Should I book you any extra appointments with the team therapist this week?"

"I'm not crazy," the striker frowns.

"I never said you were. There’s a big game coming up for you. It's a lot of stress and pressure and I just want to know that you’re prepared well in advanced and that someone is helping you cope with it."

"Ola helps me."

When Robbie smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners and it makes Fernando annoyed.

"I know she does, but I want a trained professional assisting you too. I'm going to book you for two extra appointments this week and next week. I want you to talk about this at length, okay?" Fernando just shrugs and Robbie gives his shoulders a quick squeeze, "I know how you feel, believe me. The therapist will help.”

“Will you book extra sessions when we have to play West Brom?” It’s childish and low, Fernando knows, but he’s sullen and reluctant and he doesn’t care.

Robbie doesn’t seem to mind though. He shrugs a little and his eyes crinkle again, “I might.”

It's not an option, so no matter how much Fernando wants to disagree, he knows it'll be useless.

* * *

When Fernando gets a red card during the sham of a match versus Manchester United, he just about gives up. He doesn't even make a real attempt at arguing, just lingers on the field for a bit, wondering how his career and his life dissolved into what it is at that moment.

David de Gea comes up behind him and covers his mouth as he whispers, "Are you all right?"

Fernando is everything but all right.

"This guy, I don't know what the fuck he's doing. That wasn't your fault," David says.

He wants to disagree, but Robbie is signalling to him, so all he says is, "See you around", and he sulks off the pitch.

When he gets into the dressing room, Branislav is relaxing on a physiotherapy table.

"What the hell? Did you get sent off too?"

Fernando nods and drops into a chair, and Branislav sits up.

"He said I dived."

The defender puts the rest of the pieces together.

"Are you okay?"

Fernando shrugs, but doesn't say anything else.

"You can talk to me you know. Is it just the red? You look like something else is bothering you."

Fernando is silent for a minute before he chokes out, "More and more, I think I've made a mistake that I can't fix."

Branislav swings his bare feet slowly, "When I was a kid, my dad once told me that there was no such thing as a mistake; that it's life giving you a chance to do something different instead of what is expected."

"Do you believe that?" Fernando asks.

"It's what I tell my son."

Fernando wishes he could be a child again, small and safe, with decisions being made for him, absolving him of responsibility.

* * *

Fernando shifts in his chair.

"So I see that you're booked for four extra sessions during this week and next week, in addition to our usual once a week visits. Let's talk about why."

"Coach said," Fernando mumbles.

The team therapist smiles and adjusts his glasses, "There must be a reason."

Fernando shrugs.

"Maybe because you're due to play your old club in two weekends?"

The blond man scowls, "If you already know the answer, then why do you bother asking?"

The other man laughs, "I'm not belittling you, Fernando. I just need to clarify that his concerns are the same as your concerns, and if they aren't, then I need to figure out how to address both. So tell me what's been going on with you with regard to this upcoming match."

Fernando is silent for a long time. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to just sit here for an hour and not say anything at all, but this therapist is smiling at him in a way that makes Fernando think of Robbie and he figures he might as well just give it a try.

"It's always hard facing them. Not in terms of beating them, I mean. It's hard for me, on a personal level." Fernando picks at his fingernails as he talks, "'Cause they're my first foreign club, you know? Although...Did you know Chelsea was the first team to ever approach me? I was 21 at the time, still at Atlético, but it was the first time I ever started thinking about football beyond just Spain. And then Liverpool made an offer afterwards and they had such an amazing history, so I wanted to be part of that." Fernando shifts in his chair again and takes deep breaths to push the ache away. "When I was there it was good. Fuck, it was amazing. I was scoring all these goals and doing really well, and it was easy, but we weren't going anywhere and I couldn't figure out why. And then I talked to Xabi-- Xabi Alonso, he's Spanish and played at Liverpool while I was there too, I talked to him and he told me he was thinking of leaving because he wanted trophies too, which really had my head spinning because he had been there when they were winning things. It's hard to explain. Maybe you'll think I'm selfish, but I wanted more for myself. I wanted to achieve things with the club and I just wasn’t. I was doing great there, but I felt like I was working so hard and still not getting anywhere. It was too much pressure. I love Liverpool, I really do, but...now I'm here at Chelsea and I love the guys and we won trophies which is something that just wasn’t happening at Anfield." He runs his hands through his hair and tugs the blond strands a little harder than he should. "I just...I feel awful that I left them like that. That they think it was all about the money, because it wasn't. It was a lot, but it wasn't everything."

The therapist is silent for a bit and then he says, "I don't think it's selfish that you want to achieve things with your career. Doesn't everyone? That's why people spend so much money getting degrees and qualifications. Or at least, if it _is_ something selfish then it's something we're all guilty of."

Fernando returns to picking his nails. He's blurted way more out than he wanted to and now this guy is going to analyse the hell out of it, tell him he's a nutbag and--

"I don't think you miss Liverpool as much _you_ think you do."

What? Fernando certainly wasn't expecting that.

"What do you mean?"

The therapist adjusts his glasses again, "It sounds as though you feel guilty about the way you left the club, but you don't really miss actually being a part of the club."

Fernando shifts again, but this time he leans towards the other man.

"You gave a lot to Liverpool. You got a lot of personal achievements there, but it just couldn't give you the things that you wanted on a larger scale. You wanted to win trophies, and both you and your friend realised that it just wasn't happening at Anfield, so you left. Your particular circumstances are especially tricky because there was such a large transfer fee attached to your name. There was a lot of pressure on you, but you left and now you've won the Champion's League and the FA Cup with Chelsea, not to mention your achievements with Spain over the past few years. Things have been really good for you at club and international level. When you talk, it sounds a little like you feel guilty you couldn't win those things with Liverpool."

"Guilty? I guess so. Maybe that they were the first non-Spanish club I signed with, so I felt like I owed it to them."

"So do you think it might be more of a sense of unfulfilled duty to the club, rather than actually missing Liverpool, or being unhappy at Chelsea?"

Unfulfilled duty? Fernando can picture the look on Stevie's face after the FA Cup. He compares it to the look on John's face as he hoisted the silverware above his head.

Fernando doesn't hurry on his drive home. He takes deep breaths and focuses on the road ahead.

* * *

"It's only a one-match ban. Don't look so down about it," John says as he settles into his seat in the stands before the match begins.

"Hmm?" Fernando shakes himself out of a daze and turns to face the man in the row behind him.

"Smile, Nando," and John's face curls into a cheeky grin.

Fernando flashes a weak smile and tugs his scarf higher up around his neck.

John leans forward and puts a hand on the suspended striker's shoulder, "If you want to talk, you know you can come to me about anything, right? Not just as a captain, but as a friend. I know it's probably not like going to your Spanish mates, but I'm here."

Fernando nods and tugs at the zipper of his jacket, and in the midst of turning back to face the pitch, he changes his mind.

"How do you cope with the pressure so well?" His voice is barely audible above the wild chants of the red and blue supporters at The Bridge, but John doesn't ask him to repeat himself.

"I only care when it matters. If they're being great, then I go with it. I let it drive me, yeah? But if they're all being proper little shits then I don't even bother with it. It can be tough; people can be really cruel, but whatever it is- the media, the fans, the club- don't let it get to you. If you let it get to you then it owns you."

Fernando swallows thickly, "How do I stop that? Stop it from owning me?"

John leans forward and squeezes Fernando's shoulder, "Just let it go. Whatever it is, just let it go. If it's not for you, then it's against you, and that's not helpful in football. Or life in general, either."

When the start time whistle blows, Fernando thinks about the easiness in John's voice when he talks about letting go.

* * *

For their game versus Swansea this weekend his usual seat-mates, David and Juan, are injured and staying in London for physiotherapy. On the trip over to Wales César and Oriol are being rowdy with the Brazilians, and Fernando isn't in the mood for that, so he takes the empty seat next to Petr.

The tall, lanky keeper smiles and says hello before pulling a book out of his bag. Perfect, Fernando thinks. He doesn't feel like talking with anyone, so he slips his headphones on and puts his iPod on shuffle. He stares out of the window at the grey weather and sees Petr's reflection in the glass. The keeper is absorbed in his book, turning page after page. Fernando can see the book reflected in the pane of glass; there's an illustration of an ocean at night on the back cover. Petr reads non-stop and after a while Fernando's curiosity gets the better of him.

"What's it about?"

"Hmm?"

"Your book. You're very interested in it. I just wanted to know what it's about."

Petr takes his glasses off and rubs his blue eyes, "It's about this poor village boy who's very good at magic, so he gets sent off to some elite academy to train with other magicians. He and this other boy are rivals and the other kid dares him to prove how powerful he is by bringing back the dead, so of course, like an idiot he tries it and it all goes horribly wrong and now there's this dead spirit monster roaming the land and trying to kill him. He has to leave the academy and then find the thing and kill it or whatever so that he can be free.” Petr sees the look on Fernando’s face and chuckles, “It's my nephew's favourite book, so he asked me to read it. I figured I'd give it a try. It's pretty interesting once you get into it."

"It sounds...okay, I guess."

The keeper laughs and shrugs, "I think it's a metaphor for people getting involved in things that they don't quite know the consequences of, and having to face the repercussions of their actions."

"Oh," Fernando stills. "How does it end?"

Petr holds up the book and shows Fernando the pages he has left. "Not sure. Right now he's trying to figure out what the thing is and why it's only after him, but nobody really knows. My guess is that he finds some way to defeat it in the end. I mean, he has to, right? Or else it wouldn't be a very good book. I'll let you know when I finish it. Or I can lend it to you. It's a short read; won't take more than a week to get through."

Fernando politely declines and Petr just smiles and puts his glasses back on. They both go back to their activities and before long they're all shuffling into a Welsh hotel in chilly, wet weather.

They spend the evening training and Fernando goes to bed early. The game isn't the easy 3 points they had been hoping for, so everyone is sullen and quiet on the way back to London. When they're gathering their luggage to go and Robbie is reminding them about the details for their match against Shakhtar Donetsk in a couple days, Petr nudges Fernando.

"I finished the book."

The blond man struggles to place what the keeper is talking about, "The magic book?"

Petr nods, "He decided to stop running from it and started chasing it instead. He followed it to the end of the earth and when it finally turned around for him to get a good look at it, he saw that it looked like him, so he gave it his name and it became part of himself."

"What?" Fernando's brow wrinkles in confusion.

"When he stopped letting his fear control him and started trying to take control of his fear, he realised that it was just a part of himself that he was trying to deny- I think that it was the pride that made him try to summon the dead in the first place. Anyway, once he realised that the thing he was running from was the part of himself that he was afraid of, he realised he couldn't kill it, but he could accept it."

Fernando is still confused and Petr scratches his head.

"His fear was a part of him; his past and the choices that he made. He couldn't get rid of his past, so the only thing he could do was accept it and make it part of him so that he could move on."

Fernando shuffles his feet, "How did he manage to do that?"

"Courage and support. It took some time, and he was close to giving up, but his courage let him become the master of his fear, which in the end gave him the ultimate power he had been trying to prove when he was being stupid and causing the problem in the first place. And he has his best friend along with him to guide him and encourage him." Petr gives Fernando a look, "Are you sure you don't want to read it? You seem pretty interested."

Fernando shakes his head, "Tell me when they make it into a movie."

Petr laughs and they say goodbye. On the drive home Fernando can't stop thinking about the story of a boy who made a choice which won't stop haunting him. He spares a thought for Petr's book more than once, too.

* * *

After their win against Shakhtar Donestk, David Luiz rubs the gold shoe Fernando’s been presented with.

“Not bad. It even matches your hair.”

“Yeah, both gold with black streaks,” Oscar laughs.

Fernando raises a hand to his hair and the pair of Brazilians laugh.

“What’s it like being Mr. Golden Boot?” David asks.

“It’s okay. It’s kind of silly the way I won it, but I’m glad I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well I only really won it because I played the fewest minutes of all the contenders. So being frustrated about getting stuck on the bench all the time ended up working for me.”

“Oh yeah,” Oscar says. “I remember that. You had the same number of goals and the same number of assists as Gomez, so they had to decide using minutes, yes?” Fernando nods and Oscar continues, “You’re such a gentleman Fernando.”

The striker makes a questioning face.

“You could have scored that final goal and won the Boot outright, but you passed to Juan.”

David laughs and slings his arm around Oscar’s shoulder, pulling the young Brazilian close to his side, “Like he hasn’t heard that from a thousand interviewers already?”

Fernando smiles a little and shrugs, “I didn’t even think of it at the time. I knew he was behind me and unmarked, so I passed to him and he scored. Everybody asks why I didn’t score it, but who knows, maybe if I had kept the ball I might not have been so lucky. Juan deserves it anyway. Now the whole world knows his name.”

David runs a hand through his wild curls and smiles, “That’s you, Nando. Always ready to sacrifice personal gain for the benefit of others.”

Fernando watches David haul Oscar off towards Rami, and he remembers his last few chats with the therapist. He’s given up a lot of personal achievements with the hope of greater rewards. He looks down at the golden shoe in his hands, notes how it matches the gold trim of his Chelsea kit.

* * *

“Hey,” Frank smiles.

“Hey, how’s your calf?”

“It’s all right. Still sore, but it should be good in two weeks or so.”

Fernando helps the midfielder ease into a chair as they both await their turns with the physiotherapists.

“What about you?” Frank asks, “Are you ready for this weekend?”

Fernando rubs his toes together, but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s going to be hard seeing Stevie and those lads again, won’t it?” Frank pauses for a response, but continues when he gets none, “I remember what it was like for me when I left West Ham. It was always bittersweet. They were the first team I played for. My Dad used to play for them too.” He smiles softly and stares off into space, “I loved them so much. Then my Dad got sacked and I just didn’t feel right about staying, so I came to The Bridge. It’s always hard playing against them. I think it always will be. It’s tough seeing fans that used to cheer for you now sending you dirty looks, but they only see what things are like on the outside. You’re here with us now, and you’ve already achieved so much. Maybe they resent you for that, but don’t leave yourself at the mercy of those who don’t seek your best interest. It’s not going to help you up here,” Frank taps his head. “Or in here,” he motions to his heart.

“Frank? Your turn.”

The Englishman hobbles towards the empty table and Fernando remains in his seat.

His head and his heart.

“Fernando?” The physiotherapist smiles at him, “There’s a spot for you here.”

Fernando nods. He can see it clearly from where he is.

* * *

In the tunnel, Fernando’s body thrums with anxiety. He keeps his eyes trained on the back of Ramires’ clean-shaven head. He can feel the stares of men clad in red burning into his skin. He wants to shout at them, tell them to look somewhere else, tell them things that might get him another suspension.

“Hey,” a quiet voice says.

Fernando finds Pepe Reina at his side, a smile on his face.

“Hey.”

Juan is standing behind Fernando and says hello as well.

“I’ve said it a thousand times, but I’ll say it again; I prefer seeing you guys when we’re on the same team, but it’s still nice to see you regardless of the circumstances.”

Juan smiles and reciprocates the sentiment. Fernando is afraid to open his mouth, afraid of what might come out if he pries his lips apart. Pepe and Juan talk for a bit until the keeper addresses him.

“You’ll be okay, Nando. Don’t worry.”

“P-Pepe…” Fernando isn’t sure what he’s trying to say, not sure why he’s trying to say anything at all.

“We miss you, but Liverpool isn’t everything you remember it to be. The blue suits you. It suits both of you,” the keeper gives them each a hug and returns to his team, but not before grinning at them. “Good luck out there, okay? But not too good!”

* * *

Fernando can’t focus when he’s on the pitch. It sounds as though the jeers of the Liverpool fans follow him as he runs from one end of the field to the other. He gives up. He can feel himself giving up. He stops running, just walks around midfield. His teammates are trying. They’re sending the ball to Fernando, begging him to do something with it, but all he can hear are the taunts from supporters in red; the words trip him up, send his head spinning. He loses the ball—gives it away, really. He should be trying his damnedest out here, but it hurts. It hurts too much and the pain makes his limbs and his heart heavy.

Mikel frowns at him as Fernando ambles alongside his teammates, “What team are you playing for, man? Come on!”

But Fernando’s heart just sinks lower. When Juan flashes him a sad look with those too-blue eyes, he tries to try. In the 68th minute Juan takes a corner and Fernando tries as best as he can to make contact, but it just doesn’t happen. The midfielder gives him an appreciative nod for his efforts, but the boos from the stands weigh Fernando down far too much for him to feel even slightly positive.

In the 73rd minute, Suarez evens the score and Fernando can’t help but feel a little bit smug that no red shirts crowd the Uruguayan in celebration. He gains a little steam from the schadenfreude, but there are no more chances for him to capitalise on and he knows when he sees the substitution board held up and Sturridge alongside that it’s his number on there.

Fernando shuffles off the pitch, trying to ignore the rude gestures and howls from fans that used to adore him, trying to ignore the polite, but stilted clapping of fans that now try to.

Robbie rubs his shoulder gently and mumbles a soft, “It’s okay. You did what you could.” 

He settles onto the bench next to Romeu, but he just shrugs his jacket on and brushes off the other Spaniard’s gentle attempts at conversation.

It’s not okay. He didn’t do his best. He can’t stand the pitying looks from his friends, his teammates, the fans. It’s not okay. There’s nothing more that he can do.

* * *

Fernando can’t sleep. Olalla is snoring gently next to him, and the children are tucked into bed with their favourite stuffed animals, but Fernando can’t turn his brain off. He slips out of bed quietly and puts a t-shirt on over his pyjama pants before quietly leaving his apartment. He walks up two flights of stairs and knocks on a door on the 11th floor.

It takes a minute or two, but Juan appears in the doorway. His hair is sleep-tousled and he squints against the bright lights of the corridor.

“Fer?” He stands back and lets the striker slouch into his apartment.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s late, but I couldn’t sleep.” Fernando lets Juan wrap his arms around him, lets the shorter man put his head of dark, messy curls on his shoulder. “And I wanted to see you before you left for Panamá.”

Juan relaxes against Fernando’s chest, “My flight is in a few hours, but I’m glad you came. I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure if you were ready.”

Fernando takes deep breaths in the dark room and wonders how his life can be so full of things that make him feel both so unappreciated and incredibly loved.

“They’re going to sell me, aren’t they?” Fernando’s voice is small and quiet in the apartment. The lights are off, but the glow of London filters in through the windows and shows him blue eyes looking up at him softly.

“I don’t know,” Juan has always been honest with him. “I don’t want them to. You’re the main reason I’m even in London. If you’re not here…” Juan stops for a moment and presses his face into Fernando’s shoulder. The blond man can feel the warmth of Juan’s skin seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I believe in you. Whatever it is that you think that you’ve lost is still inside you somewhere. You’ve just forgotten how to find it.”

“It’s too late for that. Everyone’s talking about Falcao. They’ll probably send me back to Spain and—“

Juan shoves Fernando a little and frowns at him, “Stop that. There’s still time. I’m not giving up on you. I wouldn’t be up at 2 in the morning with a flight to catch in four hours if I didn’t have faith in you, Fernando. It’s time you stop feeling sorry for yourself and start realising that if you just stop letting your thoughts get in the way, you can do it.”

Fernando rubs his chest where Juan has pushed him away and he stares at his friend’s fierce blue eyes and unruly curls.

“Juan…”

“Do you want to go back to them? To Liverpool? Would you just prefer to be back there?”

Fernando moves over to window and stares out at the London night. He is silent. Would he just prefer to be back there?

He remembers scoring goals and breaking records with Liverpool. He remembers the feel of awards in his hands, awards that he could never share with his teammates in Red, awards that made them resent him in the dressing room. He thinks of the past two years at Chelsea. He thinks of the feeling he had, winning the FA Cup against Liverpool. He remembers the sadness on the Liverpool team, the way he couldn’t connect with their sorrow because of all the joy swelling his heart. He remembers Robbie on his right side and Juan on his left, both holding him tightly, their smiles and their happiness overwhelming him. Fernando remembers sitting atop the crossbar in Munich, staring out at a roaring sea of blue supporters. He remembers the pride etched on Olalla’s face as she congratulated him, remembers the warmth of Nora’s arms flung around his neck, Leo’s voice saying _‘You’re the best, papa!’_ He remembers the distorted reflection of his face, red with joy in the Champions League trophy. He remembers the feel of the cup, cold and hard beneath his lips, remembers the heat that chased all that cold away when Juan kissed the silverware and stared into his eyes.

The midfielder steps up behind him and presses his forehead against Fernando’s shoulder blade.

“I’ll support you, whatever you choose.”

Fernando turns around, “I know you would.” The striker smiles, “I don’t want to go anywhere. Really. I might not be scoring the way I used to, but at least I’m winning with the team. That’s what I really want. Individual achievements mean nothing if I can’t share my happiness with my teammates. Titles belong to everyone. It makes us all winners.” He runs a hand through Juan’s hair, sending the curls into even more disarray, “And I want to show you that I deserve the faith that you have in me.”

Juan’s smile lights up the room and he wraps his arms around the taller man, pressing his face into the side of Fernando’s neck.

“Good,” he says softly, and Fernando holds the young midfielder tightly. 

He’s realised over these past two weeks that this team believes in him, even when he barely gives them anything to believe in. Fernando can feel that desire to perform reignite in him. The familiar kindling makes him want to do well, to make these men proud of him, to make his kids proud of him.

“Can I go back to bed now?” Juan mumbles against the skin of Fernando’s neck.

The blond man laughs and squeezes the smaller one firmly, “No.”

Juan pulls back and makes a face, but raises one hand to Fernando’s face and traces his mouth with a finger.

“It’s the first time you’ve smiled in a long time, Fer. Keep it like this.”

Fernando can’t help himself; he leans forward and presses his mouth to Juan’s own softly.

“Fer,” the young man protests, “You know how I feel about doing this when your family is downstairs.”

Fernando nods, but kisses Juan again, “I know, but I’m happy.”

Juan rolls his eyes and still tries to push Fernando away, but there’s a smile on his face. “That’s not fair; don’t use your happiness as an excuse to break our rules.”

Fernando walks Juan to the bedroom and guides him onto the mattress. Juan opens his mouth to protest again, but Fernando cuts him off.

“I know. Your flight is in a few hours, and you need to sleep, so just let me lie here with you.”

Juan gets beneath the sheets and falls asleep almost instantly. Fernando stays awake, eying the suitcase at the foot of the bed and the man lying next to him. If he were to write a list of things that Liverpool could never give him, Juan would be at the top.

He gives the sleeping man a kiss on the forehead before slipping out of the bed and scrawls a note in the kitchen before leaving the apartment.

‘ _Good luck, and thank you_ ,’ it reads, but Juan will know it really means _Good luck, and I love you_.

Fernando feels confident. He can do this. His life is so full of people who love and support him. It’s high time that Fernando starts loving and supporting himself.

**Author's Note:**

> *Petr is reading 'A Wizard of Earthsea' by Ursula Le Guin.


End file.
